Part 2
PART 2
Mike had gotten the compass tattoo when he was nineteen.
It came from a road trip he had taken with Harold.
According to Mike, the two of them had planned to get matching tattoos, but Harold changed his mind at the last minute.
Mike teased him about it for years.
Mia knew that tattoo better than almost anyone.
When she rode on Mike’s shoulders, she would touch the small compass behind his ear.
To her, that symbol wasn’t simply a tattoo.
It meant Daddy.
Suddenly her words at the party made sense.
But another question replaced them.
Why did Harold have it now?
I left the party with Mia and barely slept.
After putting her to bed, I opened a box of old photographs I had avoided since Mike’s death.
Eventually, I found exactly what I remembered.
One photograph showed nineteen-year-old Mike outside the tattoo shop with a bandage behind his ear.
Another showed Harold shortly afterward.
His skin was completely clear.
He had never gotten the matching tattoo.
Until now.
I also realized Harold had started growing his hair longer around six months earlier.
The next morning, I went to his house.
He opened the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt.
He looked as tired as I felt.
“I figured you’d come,” he said.
Inside, Mike’s old travel mug was sitting on Harold’s kitchen counter.
I didn’t sit down.
“Turn your head.”
“Alison…”
“Please.”
He finally turned.
The compass was there.
Still slightly new-looking.
“When did you get it?”
“Six months ago.”
“Why?”
Harold lowered his eyes.
“Because I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of missing Mike?”
He shook his head.
“When we were nineteen, Mike wanted us to get those tattoos together. I backed out. After he died, I kept thinking about it.”
He took a breath.
“I wanted to finally give him the yes I should’ve given him back then.”
His voice cracked.
I felt some of my suspicion disappear.
“So that’s why Mia thought you were him.”
“I forgot how often she used to touch Mike’s tattoo,” Harold said. “When she pointed at mine during the party, I realized immediately. I felt terrible.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I stood.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Harold followed me toward the door.
But before I left, he stopped.
“There’s something else I should probably tell you.”
I turned around.
“What?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know how to say it.”
“Then don’t. Not today.”
I drove home.
But the unfinished sentence stayed with me.
So did Benjamin’s comment.
A second-floor renovation.
For a family.
That afternoon, I texted Harold.
**We need to finish that conversation.**
His reply came almost immediately.
**Yes.**
When I returned, I asked the question directly.
“The tattoo wasn’t the only thing you were hiding, was it?”
Harold said nothing.
“The renovation upstairs. It’s for Mia and me.”
His shoulders dropped.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
